


The clichés of paris

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're walking and talking clichés, but that's what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The clichés of paris

'Enjolras —' Grantaire cuts off on a sharp breath. 'Leave it on.'

'Why?'

He's halfway to taking off his red coat, his shirt unbuttoned and pants undone, but he frowns. With his lips wet, and knees aching from dropping to his knees too hard, stopping isn't exactly on his mind, but asking why slips from him; he has a feeling he knows the answer, but hearing it from Grantaire is like music to his ears.

'Because it brings out your eyes,' Grantaire says, rolling his own, and then laughs. 'Why do you think?'

Enjolras smirks. 'Say it.'

'I'd rather show you,' is his answer, and he leans down, kissing him.

It's slow at first, easing Enjolras in, but then Grantaire cups his face, pushing and giving harder, enough that their teeth clack and their noses flatten. His hands slip under the shoulders of Enjolras' coat and shirt, smoothing over his bare torso — hard muscle and flushed skin, his chest rises with heavy breaths. He's always had a thing for clothes half-on, half-off, the way pants hang from legs or are slid down thighs, a tousled look, one that sits in Grantaire's mind each day.

When he pulls away, Enjolras' cheeks are tinged and hot under his touch, eyes slowly opening when Grantaire runs a hand through his curly, blond hair. He closes his fist, tugs Enjolras' head back, and kisses down the trail of red bite marks left on his neck. They're like art on a canvas, open for him to decorate it, make a memory.

'Even after a year, this is still surreal,' Grantaire says around a shaky breath. 'Wish I had my camera, take a picture of this moment, nail it to my wall, post it through every letterbox, and —'

Enjolras laughs. ' _And_ scare the neighbours.'

'No.'

'Yes?'

'No. I think they'd be impressed. Jealous, even.'

'You're not serious. They'd be mortified by their neighbour posting pictures of me like this.'

Grantaire runs a hand through Enjolras' hair, and then smiles; he grins until it hurts his cheeks. 'Want to give it a try? I bet you —'

He's cut off; he moans as his trousers are undone and tugged down his thighs, a hand slipping past the waistband of his pants and wrapping around him. His head drops back against the wall, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, the strands of hair between his fingers soft and begging to be pulled. He does, Grantaire pulls until Enjolras hovers over him, and then —

A groan tears up his throat, a shudder whipping up his back, as Enjolras sucks him into his mouth.

It's ridiculous to compare it to what must be heaven, the ball of warmth he's always felt when doing this starting at the base of his spine; it'll mount into a heat that burns across his skin in a red flush, the one that Enjolras loves to brush over with shaky fingers. His thighs shake too, and he's forced to slide down to the floor, knees falling open as Enjolras crowds between his legs. He would feel embarassed by how quickly he's turned into a fidgety, uncontrollable mess if it isn't for how good it feels.

Enjolras runs his hands over Grantaire's stomach, over the dark line of hair and tense muscles. Enjolras is serious when he does this, when he takes control, when he leads. His movements are firm, determined, the end goal in his sight, and Grantaire can all but go along with it, gives them what they both need.

And he does, too fast, too much, all at once, coming undone as Enjolras swallows around him.

The aftershocks flinch through him, and he slumps back against the wall, sweaty and heaving in wet breaths. He sighs, grabbing Enjolras by the hair again and pulling him up for a kiss.

'You were —'

'Marry me.'

Grantaire pauses. 'I know I'm good, but you know you did most of the work, right?'

'I mean it,' Enjolras says, his hand coming to rest on Grantaire's cheek; it's hot and he can feel his pulse throb in his neck. 'I want you to marry me. I want to marry you.'

His hands still lay against Enjolras' chest, his red coat stark against pale skin, and Grantaire studies him — studies this scene. They might be in heap on the floor, with hair clinging to the sweat on their foreheads, and breathing as if they can't get enough air into their lungs, but it's a scene Grantaire loves, one he imagines each day.

He cards his fingers through Enjolras' hair, again. 'So, this is a serious thing?'

'If you want it to be. I wouldn't mind if it were.'

'Not the most romantic proposal,' Grantaire says, smiling. 'Though I guess I could make an exception.'

And then they kiss, in the average studio apartment they live in that overlooks the busy lives of Paris, wearing a green vest and red coat that has been on their shoulders for years, in sweaty skin and thick, curly hair, and it's what they want. It's not luxury, far from it, and not what they might've dreamed up when they were younger, but it doesn't matter because they're Grantaire and Enjolras, and wherever they can hold hands, they will stay.

It sounds like a cliché; it is a cliché, the epitome of one, walking and talking as they're the couple who feed each other food and write notes and have picnics in the park until the sun sets. Even though they scream typical romance, as Grantaire clutches Enjolras to him, kissing and holding him as close as he can, he'd rather be a cliché than to live in a life where he is not with Enjolras, even if that means to welcome death in the end. They will welcome Death with open arms, as long as they're standing side by side.

He pulls back to look at Enjolras, who smiles at him, and thinks: _that's it, that's what I want._

'Now about those pictures. . . '

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I watched Les Misérables for the first time last week — it was amazing, and made me question why I hadn't watched it sooner — and, as you can see, made me ship these two dorks. Hopefully the fact it's my first time writing them is a justifiable reason if this fic isn't up to scratch, in spite of being what it is. Anyway, please leaves a kudos!♡


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